


Nice, France

by mattaretto



Series: Cross Country [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Artist Steve Rogers, Artists, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattaretto/pseuds/mattaretto
Summary: The day is spent inside on a rainy day.





	Nice, France

**Author's Note:**

> small angst

The nearly five day trip from Bern to Nice was one of the most beautiful. The country side you decided to spend most of your travelling through was gorgeous and the rolling, green hills gave way to a blue sky and white clouds. 

The first day in Nice was spent walking around the city before finding a hotel in the city. It was located close to Vieille Ville, and the place itself was stunning. The patio and pool area decorated with greenery of all sorts, plants hanging over head, bright pink bougainvillea flowers decorating the vibrant green, and vines climbing the sides of the building. 

You’d managed to get seperate rooms close to each other. The rooms weren’t connected, but you’d given each other the extra key. You always knocked before entering, but you also spent a lot of time in the same room, only seperating when either of you needed to sleep or shower. You learned that Steve was an artist and was travelling Europe to draw the culture and things no one sees for his new project. 

The second day was spent walking around Vieille Ville, coming across the Cours Saleya Flower Market. You wandered around the market, Steve taking photos on his phone so he could draw them later. His memory was good and he didn’t necessarily need to take photos in order to draw them later, but he did capturing the details when he had a photo reference. 

The colors from the flowers were vibrant and colored the street like a coloring book. Vendor after vendor had flowers of all sorts. The flowers bleed into fruits and the fruits into vegetables. You went from vendor to vendor, taking the time to smell the different flowers and talk with each vendor. 

You left the market with a bag of fruits, red peonies, white snapdragons, and light red carnations in hand. Steve trailed behind you, taking longer to take more photos was your guess. 

Overnight it began to rain and by the third day the light sprinkling gave way to a summer storm that filled the air with smell of concrete. Despite the rain, a lot of people were outside, umbrellas up and decorating the streets below with colorful circles. 

You spent the day inside, curled up in the hotel bed beside the window, book in hand as the rain pattered against the window. Steve was in the room, hunched over in the chair with a sketchbook in his lap and pencil in hand. 

Music wafted slowly through the room, accompanying the rain and light pencil scratching. You tried your best to focus on your book but found yourself distracted, eyes drifting to Steve where he sat on the other side of the room. 

He was wearing white sweatpants that looks more like scrubs and a light grey tank top, dog tags hanging down his chest, cap backward on his head to keep his hair out of his face as he stared down at the sheet of paper. His jaw was set as he focused on his drawing, Every few minutes his eyes glanced to his phone but he seemed to have the photo memorized.

“Hey, glaçon blanc, what’re you drawing?” You placed your bookmark between the pages and set it beside you, turning to lean against the wall and face him. You watched as he rolled his eyes and a slight blush crept up his neck to tint his cheeks the same shade of pink as the carnations. 

“Just the flowers from the market yesterday,” He mumbled, eyes staying focused on the paper. You could tell from the blush it wasn’t the whole truth but you weren’t going to push it. After a bit more silence you spoke again. 

“Where’d you serve?” His movements stopped and his features seemed to harden more, “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. I was just curious.” You were quick to speak and he finally looked up. 

“No, it’s fine. You would have asked eventually. I served two tours in Afghanistan.” He was rigid, voice tense and you knew immediately he lost someone. 

“You lost someone.” Your own voice stayed quiet and comforting, he nodded and his eyes glazed over, “Who’d you lose?” You knew you probably shouldn’t have asked but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“Everyone.” His voice cracked and you were quick to get up, moving in front of him and taking the sketch book from him, setting it aside and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hesitated to wrap his arms around you, pulling you to stand between his legs as he sat in the chair. 

Neither of you moved and slowly carded your hands through his hair, a quiet whisper falling from your lips, “I’m sorry.” 


End file.
